


Groundhog Day

by orphan_account



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:51:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5756113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard finds history repeating itself - but can he manage it differently this time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Groundhog Day

Detective Inspector Richard Poole hesitated at the door of his boss’s office. He didn’t believe in premonitions but something about this particular summons had left him with a distinct feeling of unease, as if something catastrophic were about to happen. Nonsense! he thought. It’s just that you didn’t sleep well last night and you’re tired. No such thing as a sense of impending doom. There’s nothing extraordinary about an appointment to see your superior officer.  
Except that he had the distinct impression that most of the time Chief Superintendent Hewitt was barely aware of his existence. Since his return from the Caribbean about a year ago, he had been transferred to this anonymous North London borough and assigned to what were basically cold cases. No doubt someone had whispered in the Chief’s ear that Poole had a reputation as a brilliant detective but was not a ‘people person’ and definitely not a team player.  
So his days were spent in splendid isolation in a tiny office in the basement with just a pile of dusty old files for company. He didn’t mind, particularly – he enjoyed analysing the paperwork, doing additional research, getting further tests done as forensic capabilities evolved, following up the little things that the original investigating team had missed and sometimes – just sometimes – he found a new avenue of enquiry which led to the investigation being reactivated and in a couple of instances had resulted in arrests and prosecutions. That was particularly satisfying, of course. It appealed to his sense of neatness, order and propriety that cases should have a beginning, middle and – most importantly – an end.  
As for the rest of the team, well, he hardly knew them really. He suspected that most of them were so absorbed in their active investigations that they completely forget he was there for most of the time. Not that anyone was deliberately unkind: they were a pleasant enough group of people, who sometimes remembered to invite him to the pub after work. And occasionally he even went. But he was out on a limb, shut up all day in his office so daily interactions were limited to the coffee machine or water dispenser or the occasional chat at the photocopier. And so his reputation as something of a loner passed from rumour into incontrovertible fact.  
But enough of this. Richard cleared his throat, straightened his already straight tie and knocked firmly on the door. A grunt from within he interpreted as an invitation to enter so he opened the door and hovered on the threshold.  
“You wanted to see me, Sir?”  
“Ah, yes … er, Poole. Take a seat.”  
Chief Superintendent Hewitt found himself facing a fairly nondescript man of early middle age, neatly but conservatively dressed, hair starting to recede but with a pair of striking green eyes which stared back at him steadily and with a hint of inquiry. He sighed. He never quite knew how to handle Poole, which was why he avoided meeting him whenever possible. The man was obviously very gifted – extremely intelligent and diligent – but could be tetchy, difficult and sometimes even downright rude. Yes, definitely not a people person.  
He sorted some papers on his desk while deciding on the best way of approaching the business in hand. From past experience, he knew that the usual pleasantries were unlikely to work. Damn the man – he almost made him nervous! He looked up and met the somewhat unnerving gaze.  
“Well, Poole, and how are you enjoying working in the Borough?”  
“Well, Sir, I am almost totally desk-based so I don’t get to see much of the Borough as such, but yes, I am finding the work interesting and quite satisfying, thank you.”  
“I see you have had some quite remarkable successes since you joined us: five people arrested and charged so far. That’s quite impressive.”  
“Thank you, Sir.” What is this all leading to?  
“The thing is, Poole, I’ve had a request for assistance from Interpol. “  
“Interpol, Sir?”  
“Yes. As you know, the Interpol headquarters in Paris is staffed in part by police officers seconded from their national police forces. One of them was a Detective Sergeant Morris, who was attached to the Met, though not this Borough. Sadly, she appears to have been murdered – shot while sitting in a car. The French police have been investigating of course, but they seem to have drawn a blank.”  
“Well, that’s very sad, Sir, but I don’t really see how I …”  
“No, well you see one of the top brass at Interpol is a Brit and in fact he used to be my old boss years ago. He feels that since the victim was British and the French police have got nowhere it would be appropriate to send a British officer to conduct a thorough investigation, and of course I immediately thought of you.”  
“Me, Sir? But …”  
“Yes, I am convinced you would be the best man for the job. You have a track record in murder cases second to none, and you have experience of working overseas.”  
“But … but Paris, Sir – that’s in France!”  
“I am aware of that, Inspector. Is there some particular problem?”  
“No, well, yes … I don’t speak French, to start with.”  
“That’s not an issue. Interpol, as I am sure you are aware, is a multilingual organisation where just about everyone speaks English.”  
“And … and … I don’t get on with the French!” A hideous vision of Catherine Bordey in full, uninhibited gallic flow suddenly loomed.  
“Really, Inspector, I’m sure you can make an effort, just for once. And Paris is a charming city, do you not agree?”  
“I don’t know, Sir, I’ve never been there.”  
“All the more reason, then. It will do you good to get out of your comfort zone. So that’s settled then. Go home and pack and my secretary will organise your travel – you should be there by late afternoon.”  
Hewitt rose, and Richard knew it was useless to argue any further. Biting his lip he left the room and returned to his basement to rage inwardly at the unfairness of fate and then to collect up the paperwork he was currently working on and file it safely in his pending tray. He picked up his coat and briefcase and quickly made his way out of the building towards the Underground. He did wonder whether to mention his assignment to the rest of the team but concluded dispiritedly that they wouldn’t miss him and probably wouldn’t even notice that he was not there so decided not to bother.  
For once, since it was only 10.30 in the morning, he got a seat on the tube. Normally he would have got out whatever book he was currently reading but today his thoughts were in too much turmoil for concentration. Paris! The last place he ever wanted to go to. Full of difficult, argumentative, emotional French people. It was all very well for Hewitt to talk about getting out of his comfort zone: didn’t the man understand that the whole point of a comfort zone was that you were comfortable in it?  
Well, there it was. He had been here before. It was a bit weird, when you came to think of it. He was once again being sent overseas on an unwanted assignment to solve the murder of a British police officer. As the train jolted along the tracks he was suddenly reminded of a stupid film he had seen on one of the interminable flights he had made to the Caribbean. About a man who had to live the same bit of his life over and over again. He had been scathing about it at the time: a ridiculous plot, totally unscientific and implausible, he couldn’t understand what people saw in it. And yet here he was …  
The doors hissed open once more. With a start Richard realised that the train had arrived at his station. He grabbed his case and ran for the gap as the doors began to close. He just squeezed through but his case was caught. He tugged frantically. The doors opened again briefly and he tumbled backwards onto the station platform. Another humiliation. With a filthy look at the offending spot he brushed himself down, ignoring the stares and giggles of the other passengers and strode off towards the escalator, muttering darkly to himself. Five hours later he was stepping off the Eurostar train at the Gare du Nord.

**Author's Note:**

> I am well aware that Interpol’s headquarters moved out of Paris some years ago, and never was in the centre of the city – but I claim poetic licence!


End file.
